


The world is alright, sometimes

by RosaRena_Sanityregained



Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, Fluff, Gen, Hagrid is the mvp, Implied/Referenced Child Abuse, Therapy
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2019-06-10
Updated: 2020-04-14
Packaged: 2020-04-23 18:56:34
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 3
Words: 3,816
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/19156966
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/RosaRena_Sanityregained/pseuds/RosaRena_Sanityregained
Summary: An non-magical AU where Harry is removed from the Dursleys'  care and living with Social Worker!Hagrid.Disclaimer: I'm not sure how the UK Child Welfare Society is like or how . . . people live jn the UK lmao. Totally self-indulgent fluff.





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> Hello friends! This is a work I randomly started in my (overused) Notes App and now I want to share it with the world. 
> 
> Hagrid deserves more credit and I decided to give him some!

Hagrid had seen tonnes of cases like his. Of neglect. Of willful deprivation. Of abuse of any and all kinds. 

Harry was so tiny, so skinny. There was a deadness in his lovely green eyes. A cynicism far too mature for an eleven-year-old. 

It was a matter of fact that kids like him slipped through the cracks far too often and far too long. 

Most times Hagrid left the cases at work, never brought them home. But, here he was -- bringing his case into his very own house. 

It wasn't a very grand place to live, in the scheme of things. Much less picturesque then the suburban house on Privet Drive. No manicured lawns here. 

It was more . . . of cottage of sorts in a plot of land he inherited from his dad. It was right beside a small forest -- which suited Hagrid just fine. 

He loved nature, he loved plants and he especially loved animals. There was even a chicken or two in his backyard and a rather nice -- if said so himself -- vegetable garden. 

Harry peered up at the dipulated cottage with the funny, lopsided roof. The paint was a peeling yellow -- Hagrid made a mental note to get that redone -- and it looked to be rather small. One floor and maybe a cellar. 

There was a smattering of houses down the road -- most of them of similar or smaller stock. 

"You live here?" the bespectacled young boy asked. 

Hagrid made what he thought was friendly-enough smile. 

"It's not much," he admited, "but it's 'ome!" 

Harry nodded. He clutched his backpack straps. All of his worldly possessions were in the small, faded red backpack. 

Maybe a few pairs of boxers, a shirt and shorts. Hagrid told him not to bother with the disturbingly over-large clothing Harry's terrible aunt and uncle forced him to wear. 

He'd get Harry more fitting clothes and . . . every other necessity. 

"Well, 'e should go in, eh?" he asked jovially. 

Harry shrugged. 

Hagrid took that as a yes and lumbered towards the three-stepped porch. He was large and tall. Much taller than Harry would ever get, he predicted. 

He even had to stoop to keep from hitting his head on the doorframe. 

Inside was hastily cleaned. The wooden floors were probably the cleanest they'd been in three months. It was an open floor plan -- well as open as a tiny little cottage could get -- and a kitchenette. The sofas were all mismatched and varying sizes. 

Really the loveliest piece in the living area was his large, round dining table that held stacked papers and other knick knacks like a snowglobe. Thankfully there was also an old fireplace that the sofas were gathered around. 

But, Harry hadn't a glimpse before three yapping pitbulls came throttling at him. 

With a quickness so unlike him, Hagrid pulled Harry gently to the side. 

"Stop!" he yelled. 

The three ceased immediately, panting in unison. Harry blinked, surprisingly unphased by the "attack". 

A twinkling laugh and then a man with a long white beard popped into the room from a door on the otherside of the home. It was an old man with sparkling blue eyes and an exceedingly kind smile. His clothes were . . . he seemed to be dressed in a star-printed night robe and a set of pin-striped pair of pjamas underneath. Almost as if he had been sleeping.

Harry furrowed his thick black eyebrows at the sight. 

"Ah, I'm quite sorry Hagrid -- I took a quick trip to the loo and must've forgotten to let them in yard," apolgized the amused man. 

Hagrid laughed boisterously. 

"Not to worry, not to worry," he reassured. 

The old man shuffled nearer -- he was even wearing sheep slippers! This caught the boy's eyes, focusing them on the slippers. 

"This is must be Mr. Harry Potter, is it?" asked the still unknown man. 

Hagrid nodded enthusiastically. He firmly slapped the back of the boy's back, making him bolt up to stare directly at the other man in the home.

"Awh, 'orry 'arry," said Hagrid, realizing the strength of it. 

Harry glanced up at him and shrugged. 

This made the old man chuckle. He held out a wrinkled large hand. 

"How do you do? My name is Albus Dumbledore," introducing himself. 

Harry nodded in response and gingerly putting his small, boney pale hand with the man's. He shook the hand limply. 

"Yeah, it's Harry," he mumbled in response. 

Hagrid and Albus shared a quick glance. 

Albus clapped his hands. 

"Well it seems that my dog-sitting has finished. I'll be seeing you two soon, I'm sure?" he asked. 

"'Course! Once me an' 'arry get all set, we'll ring you for dinner!" promised Hagrid. 

Albus laughed, pleased at this. 

"Alright, it was good meeting you Mr. Potter. You're in good hands," he told the inexpressive boy. 

With that, he walked straight past them and out the door -- not changing into anything else. 

They turned to watch him shut the door behind him. 

"That's Dumbledore," Hagrid informed Harry, "'e's retired. Good man. Very good man." 

He seemed to become lost momentarily in remembrance of sorts. 

"Okay," was Harry's reply. 

Hagrid looked down at him and smiled awkwardly. 

"Well, I ought to show yer room, no?" 

\--- 

Harry didn't really understand the scarily huge man with a scraggly, thick black beard and equally messy hair. 

He was nice to him. For some reason he even seemed to . . . care. 

Really, all Harry knew was that someone finally tipped off the child welfare people about the Durselys and now he was here. 

His new guardian had let him accustomize to his new room. It wasn't exactly big -- certainly not as big as Dudley's but it was cozy. And not a broom closet. 

The bed was a solid twin with mustard sheets. Not very appealing. Hagrid didn't seem to have much interior decorating sense. 

There was a nice oak wardrobe, a small writing desk with a slim lamp, a wood chair to match and a drawer beside the bed with an old black rectangular digital clock. Beyond that, it was bare. 

And it wasn't a broom closet. 

He went up to the bed, took off his backpack and emptied it's contents on top. There were a couple of okay-quality underpants, a nice green t-shirt that matched his eyes and some make-shift denim shorts. The shorts in particular were a blessing in spite of once belonging to an obese child. 

He thought about Dudley (even if he detested him) and wondered what the child welfare people did with him. They had been adamant about Aunt Petunia and Uncle Vernon being unfit parents, in more ways than their looks. 

But Dudley was loved by them. Maybe he was left with them.

It didn't matter. 

The rest of his stuff was a yellowing toothbrush, his glasses case and a picture book. It was about a little magic boy who went to a fantastical wizarding school. A little childish for eleven but it was sentimental. 

A keepsake of the parents that must've loved him. 

Would this Hagrid character be kind? He acted like it. Aunt Petunia acted all the time in front of the neighbours, convinced of him being a trouble-maker. 

It didn't matter. 

Nothing really matter, did it?


	2. Chapter 2

Hagrid was terrified that Harry wouldn't be able to trust adults. After all, they had left him alone for so long in that children's hell. 

At least he had a therapist lined up for him. He just had to tell him. It would be . . . easy? 

No, kids never took the news well. Why would they trust a doctor of all adults? Doctors were supposed to be mandated reporters but some of them let unexplained bruises go unnoticed or ignored. 

And they were intimidating. 

They sat together at the dinner table which he had cleared off for them to use. 

They sat directly in front of each other. Harry was stirring his tomato soup -- taken from straight from the garden even. Really, he wished he could live off on the bounty of his own backyard. Unfortunately, that was impossible.

He liked his sugary cereal too much. 

There was bread too -- though it was a little hard . . . a few of his friends even compared it to rocks. That spurred him into buying some softer, ready-made bread for his new charge. 

Better safe than sorry. 

"You've a week til school, are ya excited?" Hagrid asked, breaking their silence. 

Harry only briefly looked up before settling back on the soup.

"I guess," he replied. 

"What are ya? Hmm . . . year 6?" he asked. 

"Yeah." 

Silence. 

Hagrid coughed. 

"We'll need to, er, buy some things for ya . . . how bout . . . Thursday?" he asked. 

Harry shrugged. 

"Sure." 

The older man had to reassure himself that this was perfectly normal. Eleven-year-olds were almost thirteen and that meant puberty and . . . sullenness. 

Hagrid hadn't been sullen that age -- no, no that meant nothing. He had been a chipper bloke even when . . . 

"Tomorrow, ya 'ave, er . . . an appointment," Hagrid revealed. 

This made Harry actually pay attention. He dropped his spoon, letting it hit the side of the blue-painted bowl. 

This made one of the dogs perk up. It went back to its rest when it realized it had no reason to be alarmed. 

"For what?" Harry asked. 

". . . ya see, sometimes we all need ta talk ta someone when bad things happen . . .ed. So, there's these --" he began.

"I know what a shrink is," Harry interjected, "I don't need one." 

Hagrid scratched his squat nose. 

"Ya don' know tha' 'arry. And we 'all them therapists. She's a good'un," he said, more gently. 

"Do I have a choice?" 

"Not 'eally." 

\---  
Once, Harry had a bit of a good rapport going with his fancy schmancy school's councillor. She had let him skip gym by writing a good many notes to meet her. 

Then she transferred out the next year. The rich parents that gave -- no, donated money to the school had found her too hippy-dippy for their precious terrors. 

She was the only one who talked to him like he was more than what Uncle Vernon yelled at him. 

More than Aunt Petunia's live-in help. She told him he was smart. That he could be anything he wanted to. 

Did she tip off the government? 

It didn't really matter. What mattered was that she left. 

Hagrid had took him to a clinically clean little house full of therapists. They sat knee to knee in the waiting room. 

They looked like a funny pair sitting together. Him short and thin, Hagrid ridiculously tall and fat. 

The secretary kept glancing up from her papers to look up at them. It annoyed Harry. 

A white door on the left opened to show a severe-looking older woman. She wore her greying hair up in a tight bun, her black glasses at the tip of her nose and wearing a smart grey pantsuit. 

She narrowed her eyes at the unlikely duo. 

"Ah, Hagrid," she greeted curtly. 

Hagrid jumped up a little too quickly -- almoat toppling Harry. That would have been actually humourous -- eleven-year-old squashed to death by his sworn protector. 

Harry stood up slowly. 

"Minerva!" he exlaimed, "It's always a pleasure to see you." 

"Quiet down, this is a place of healing," stated the woman, a little too reverently. 

Was this his therapist? 

As if she read his thoughts, she shifted her focus onto him. 

"Harry Potter?" she asked. 

He nodded. 

"Come with me," she demanded. 

Leaving Hagrid behind, they went off into the now open room. Letting Harry in first, Minerva closed the door behind her. 

Inside was a toasty office with two comfy looking easy-chairs. She took a seat in the one near her desk. 

She gestured to the other and Harry sat down on it. 

They looked at each other. 

Suddenly, like magic the severeness in her demeanor melted into a more comforting, gentler expression

"My name is Minerva McGonagall, I will be your therapist," she told him softly. 

His throat felt dry. 

"Harry," he replied quietly. 

She smiled at him apolgetically. 

"I know you don't want to be here," she said, "But, this is for the best." 

"Why?" asked the boy, surprising himself by asking. 

"You see, Harry, when bad things happen to us as young ones, we tend to think that it doesn't affect us as we grow older," she explained, "But it often does, especially how we deal with bad things -- this is called coping. For adults who don't have the ability, it can take a long time to learn but you're young. Eleven is a good time to create these skills so you are set for life and all the bad things that will happen."

"I deal fine," he stated. 

Minerva smiled strangely.

"Maybe, but how will know if we don't test them out in a safe space?" she asked. 

It made sense, he gave her that. 

". . . what if I don't want to?" he asked. 

"Why would you not want to?" 

"I don't know." 

"Do you know what you want?" 

"I don't know."

"Okay, that's okay. Do you know what you don't want?" 

"I don't want to go back." 

"Go back where?" 

"To the Durselys." 

"Who are the Dursleys?." 

"My mum's sister's family. They aren't nice people but I don't want to talk about it." 

"Why not?" 

"You'll tell Hagrid." 

Minerva chuckled at this. 

"I suppose I forgot to tell you, didn't I? Everything you tell me is strictly confidential -- what you want, what you don't want or the Durselys, anything really," she explained, "Unless, of couse, you tell me that you're being hurt currently, there's a legal case or you want to hurt yourself. Those are very serious matters and by law, I must report it. Is that alright?" 

"I guess," he responded, "But Hagrid wouldn't hurt me." 

This seemed to interest Minerva but she didn't say anything. 

"He's just nice. I don't know him," explained Harry, "and maybe he's actually a nasty git but he's mostly nice."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> . . . no excuses for my absence.
> 
> How do you cultivate motivation? I ain't got any! 
> 
> On another note: I'm not 100% sure how child therapy works. I know about play therapy, but not necessarily for older children. Could I check the internet? Yes. Will I? Lmao noooo


	3. Feasting away

"So, how was it?" Hagrid asked, while he drove. 

Harry, sitting in the back, shrugged. Hagrid could only just see the action from the overhead mirror. 

"She's okay," replied the moody boy. 

They stopped at a red light. Hagrid began to thump his fingers on the wheel. He hummed a little. 

"Are you alright with her?" he finally asked, resuming driving. 

"Maybe," was the reply.

Hargid glanced at his charge then at the car's clock.

"We'll be eatin' with Dumbledore tonight," Hagrid told him.

Harry didn't respond, preferring to stare out at the window at pqssing cars and aging, dusty store fronts

"You'll like his place. It's rather grand."  
\--- 

It wasn't just grand -- it was a full-blown estate. In fact, it's architecture was reminscent of a bloody castle. 

Dark but deary, it was a tall building full of windows and intricate engravings. The engravings were rather haphazardly etched --- some of them looked strangely like . . . goats. Did this Dumbledore fella etch them himself? 

Hagrid must have noticed Harry's utter transfixion with the etchings as he asked, 

"Oh, yer interested, eh Harry? In the, er, uh, decor?" 

Harry looked at him blankly. 

"I don't know," the boy said bluntly. 

Hagrid cackled at the response. 

"If yer lucky, you'll meet the artist 'imself," he informed the child, "sometimes 'es out an' about if he is't . . . wit' 'is goats . . ." 

This only served to disturb Harry. So, it was Dumbledore who was the goat fanatic . . . he wasn't sure if that was a good thing or bad thing.

He sort-of didn't want to know. 

Hagrid gestured to the door, specifically pointing at the knocker. The knocker was in the mouth of a gargoyle creature that looked ready to haunt Hardy's dreams for the next month or so. Well, he didn't mind Gargoyles as much as . . . well. He supposed Vernon was a Gargoyle himself. 

"Think yer tall 'nough Harry? Ready to bang on the door to let tha' ol' coot know we're 'ere?" Hagrid asked. 

Harry pursed his lips. He wasn't eight or something! He was perfectly tall enough to reach that knocker. 

Then again, with Hagrid's height, Harry must've looked like the tiniest person. 

Harry stepped up to the door and reached out to bang, bang on it. There was a brief pause. 

Harry looked back at Hagrid. 

"No answer," he said. 

Hagrid began to speak but stopped as if he knew that the door was going to open right that very second. 

Harry whipped his head to look at old man wearing purple-dyed satin robes. It was luxurious looking but underneath was just a pair of old sweatpants and a faded yellow t-shirt with what looked to be bananas all over it. 

"Ah, dear friends!" he greeted. "Just on time--Aberforth made us a stew." 

Hagrid got up the stairs to the landing and stood behind Harry. 

"'e's here? Harry, seems like yer really gonna meet the artist after all!" he remarked cheerily. 

"Oh, was Mr. Potter enjoying the etchings? They do give this ol' dusty place some character," Dumbledore said. 

Harry just stared and stared. He suddenly had the desire to go back hom-Hagrid's house. Yes, Hagrid's house. 

"Well we ought ta go in, it's getting a bit chilly out here," Hagrid said. 

Dumbledore moved aside to let them in, beckoning them in with a smile.

Harry shuffled in, completely wary of the situation. He was quite nearly expecting the interior to be adorned with goat sculptures, framed goat pictures and maybe even goat wallpaper. To his disappointment, the interior wasn't that interesting. Sure the ceilings were high and all but Harry sort of felt cheated. 

Not that he was going to voice that or anything--that was going too far. 

Though, Dumbledore did seem to have an affinity for hanging lights and a lot of them. The abundance of the yellow bulbs contrasted nicely with the dark, dark walls and the polished black floor. 

It was a spacious place so unlike Hagrid's cottage. 

Hagrid took off his shoes as daintly as a huge man could and placed them on the lowest shelve of the wooden shoerack. 

Harry briefly looked at Dumbledore's dark blue house slippers before taking his own off. 

The floor was totally going to be cold. 

"It may be a wee bit dusty," the old man said. "Not as spiry as I once was, after all."

"Ya oughta hire a maid," Hagrid suggested. 

Dumbledore shook his head. 

"I'm not that old," he replied cheerily. "Let's not dawdle here. The dinner's cooked and plated."

He shuffled off. Hagrid turned to Harry and put his large meaty hands on his shoulders. 

"You'll be alright?" he asked. 

Harry nodded. What would he do otherwise when they were already here? 

"I'll be fine," he stated. 

Hagrid patted his shoulders before going after the other man. Harry took a deep breath and followed. 

They went past a study room with a large unlit fire place and a desk buried under book piles. 

The hallway walls were, unlike the foyer, mostly filled with old pictures of what were assumedly ancestors. Most of them were painted with faraway expressions, as if they were thinking about anything and everything else outside the confines of their ebony frames. 

He wondered how rich Dumbledore was and how Hagrid knew someone like him. 

Harry's jaw dropped as they reached the dining room. It was practically a banquet hall with its lengthy, polished mahogany table and what seemed to be a feast ontop if the table. He looked at Hagrid in shock. 

Hagrid smiled at him and gestured at the table. 

"A welcome feast," he announced, "fer one Mr. Potter." 

"A . . . uh, feast?" Harry squeaked. "For me?" 

Dumbledore clapped. 

"Of course!" he chirped. "A party of four is still a party." 

Harry looked back and forth between Dumbledore and the table. 

"Well, let's not idle," the old man added, "the food's warm and ready." 

He took a seat and gestured at the two seats in front of him. 

Hagrid lumbered over and sat his big frame done on a sturdy chair. It was then that Harry noticed that the chair Hagrid was sitting on was a tad larger than the others. 

He cautiously made his way into the seat. Dumbledore took the lid off the largest platter to reveal a steaming roasted chicken. It made Harry's stomach groanat the sight. The side dushes included mashed potatoes, peas, carrots, gravy and an assortment of leafy greens in a salad bowl. 

Harry had never . . . he had never seen so much food up close. Good quality, food no less! Aunt Pet--no, he couldn't think about her or any of her lot. He didn't fancy blubbering at the table or messing up the moment with undesirable memories. 

"Can we even eat this all? Isn't it, er. . .a bit much?" he asked without thinking. 

"'e'll take some leftovers," Hagrid replied as he carved off some chicken, "or take em to some people we know." 

The man roughly plopped the chicken onto Harry's dinner plate. 

"If not, it'll feed Aberforth and I for a month," Dumbledore joked. 

"Ah, where's the cook 'imself?" Hagrid asked. 

"Just out on an errand," Dumbledore said, then be zoned onto Harry. "Aberforth won't mind us eating, at least not terribly." 

Harry didn't really understand. He guessed that was alright. Didn't exactly mean it was an unpleasant state to be, just a befuddling one. 

Who'd have thunk he'd be at the table of some rich coot, eating like the suburban queen his Aunt would've only dreamt of being. 

He eagerly reached out for the peas, the mashed potatoes and the gravy. He was in the midst of pouring gravy when the heavy door out in front shook the house in its closing. 

After a few minutes, someone stepped into the dining space, making Hagrid and Harry turn back to look at the interloper. 

An old, though he seemed a bit more youthful than Dumbledore, man with a grumpy expression was holding a white cake box. 

"Eating without me are ye?" he asked. 

"Ah Aberforth, you made it in time! We've barely started," Dumbledore replied, pleasantly. 

"Found the bakery alright?" Hagrid asked with a grin. 

"There's one bakery in all of Diagon's Alley--'course I know where it is!"

Aberforth moved to the table snd placed the box just adjacent from the feast near Harry. The old man settled down into the seat beside his brother. He barely offered a glance at the boy, going straight for the food. 

"Perhaps you should greet our young guest," Dumbledore mused. 

Aberforth looked up from the chicken to stare at Harry, who sat diagonally from him. 

"Harry Potter, yes?" he asked gruffily. 

Harry nodded, mouth full of mash. 

"What's yer age? 9?" 

"Uh, 11 sir." 

"Hmph. Alright. Name's Aberforth, don't ya forget it--we'll be seeing each other a lot more from now on." 

That sounded vaguely like a threat, though the muffled laughter from Hagrid softened it a bit. 

Harry nodded. 

"Er, okay." 

"Good, let's eat."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Aha! Bet you didn't think I'd be back! This is unbeta'd so . . . apologizes for the mistakes. This got longer than I thought 
> 
> Also, I'm totally cheating by making Diagon Alley a non-magical place lol


End file.
